


Backroom Brawl

by theLiterator



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: DickDamiWeek, Gen, League of Assassins - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Slash, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 20:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11448333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/pseuds/theLiterator
Summary: Dick Grayson didn't get to go to the police academy, so he became a stripper.Damian al Ghul is really not into the idea of being possessed by his grandfather.





	Backroom Brawl

**Author's Note:**

> For DickDamiWeek on Tumblr.
> 
> This is as close as I come to crackfic, and for that, I am sorry.

Dick flinched as the door to the changing room was flung open with too much force and banged against the wall.

Some guy dressed all in flowing black slipped in and let the door slam shut again, staring darkly at Dick. The only features visible were his eyes, which were bright green in a very familiar way, and Dick raised an eyebrow.

He set aside the tear away pants he’d been carefully velcroing shut.

“There’s no windows in here. I’m pretty sure it’s a fire code violation, but I mean, it’s a strip club, so really, no one cares.”

The assassin, because he _had_ to be League with the whole mysterious Middle Eastern clothing schtick and the Lazarus-green eyes and everything, scoffed.

“You can hide in the shower stall,” Dick suggested, pointing at it. “I have never voluntarily used it, but if you’re desperate, you’re desperate, you know?”

That got him no response, but then there was shouting out in the hall and Dick pointed sternly toward the shower, wondering with the sane parts of his mind why he was helping a League assassin hide from someone chasing him, but the rest of him was assessing the best way to distract the man’s pursuers.

Then, the assassin was in the shower cubicle just as the door was slammed open again, and Dick stood up, assessed the array of muscle and the fact that one of the people chasing the assassin was the White Ghost, and he did the only thing he really could do, because pulling a fire alarm wasn’t exactly an option, and he yanked off his g-string and propped his foot up on the bench, putting his hands on his hips and glaring at them while showing off everything he had.

They stopped short.

“Excuse you, but the champagne room is down the _other_ hall,” he said, putting as much outraged offense in his voice as he could, and he had the pleasure of watching Dusan al Ghul turn almost purple with embarrassment before the door slammed shut again.

The other assassin came out of the shower and his eyes skated down Dick’s body then back up to his face.

“Thank you,” he said, and then he left.

“Oh for the love of--” Dick snarled, shoving on sweats and sneakers as quickly as possible before chasing the assassin back out into the night. Wallace, one of the bouncers, called his name, but he ignored it.

To anyone who hadn’t spent his formative years being Batman’s brightly colored shadow, the assassin would have disappeared into the muggy Bludhaven night, but Dick was an expert at tailing someone who was all but invisible.

He caught up with the assassin three rooftops away, and the assassin startled at his approach, drawing a sword that glinted in the sickly yellow light from the streetlamps, before sighing heavily enough that his whole chest heaved and leaning back against the chimney he’d been pressed against.

“So,” Dick said. “You’re defecting from the League, only it’s not going so well for you?”

The shadowed figure barked out a rough laugh. “That is, I believe, an understatement.”

“What brings you to Bludhaven, though?”

“It has been made clear that I’m not welcome across the river,” the assassin said, and Dick snorted. 

“Tell me about it,” Dick said, rolling his eyes with feeling. The Batsignal was on, just visible from their vantage point.

“I don’t wish to,” the assassin said, and Dick snorted again.

“It’s just an expression,” he said. “Come on, you can’t spend the night on this roof, and I can at least handle myself if they catch up with you.”

“I doubt that exposing yourself will work so well a second time,” the assassin said, dry humor just barely tinging his voice.

“You’d be surprised,” Dick said. “Exposing myself has worked a lot better for me than anything else I’ve done in my life.”

The assassin was watching him still, green eyes careful and assessing. Dick wrapped his arms around his bare stomach and shivered a little. He probably should have grabbed his hoodie before running off like that, but it was too late now.

Story of his damned life, really.

“Come on,” Dick repeated, and then, to his surprise, the assassin was shrugging off the outer part of his outfit, which Dick guessed could probably count as a coat, and wrapping it around Dick’s shoulders.

It smelled like clean sweat and the iron tang of blood, and it made Dick shiver again.

“Fine,” the assassin said. “Lead the way.”

***  
Dick shared the walkup apartment with two of the girls from work, who liked having a “safe” guy to live with given the neighborhood.

He liked splitting rent with people who didn’t give two fucks about what he did with his life.

The assassin watched as he turned the key in the lock and was quick to bolt the door shut behind them.

Sarah waved over her shoulder at him and Cherise raised an eyebrow from the kitchen.

“Wallace was looking for you. He wanted to make sure you were okay. Apparently some minor villain invaded the club today? Did you see Batman?”

“Screw Batman,” Dick said with feeling.

The assassin scoffed, a low noise in the back of his throat that Dick was beginning to think was how he expressed amusement.

“Wine?” Cherise asked, holding up two mostly-unbroken mugs and the box of cheap grocery store brand wine they kept in stock.

Dick glanced over his shoulder at the assassin who hitched up a shoulder in a gesture that he probably thought was meaningful.

Well, Dick needed some perspective, so, “Yeah, thanks.”

When Dick took the two steps over to the crummy little kitchen and then settled on the couch with Sarah, the assassin dropped easily to sit tailor style right in front of him.

Dick offered him one of the mugs and then took a long drink of his own.

“So,” Sarah said, glancing meaningfully at the assassin.

The assassin was carefully unwinding scarves to reveal a youthful face with a squared off jaw and cheekbones that were eerily familiar, and a soft quirk of a grin and a dimple that he’d definitely seen before--

“Are you Talia’s kid or her brother?” Dick blurted out, and then frowned at himself. This was why Batman didn’t want him for a partner; he wasn’t exactly subtle.

“Talia is my mother,” the assassin replied primly, and then he took a long drink from his mug, grimacing slightly and then staring at the contents. “You know her?”

Dick shrugged a little. “We’ve met, once or twice. I didn’t know that she... I had no idea you existed. Does uh…”

He glanced sideways at Sarah, and Cherise who’d taken the rickety old easy chair next to the sofa. “Well.”

“He does now,” the assassin replied, and the eerie green cast to his eyes intensified with the emotion he was suppressing.

Dick leaned back and finished off the mug in three long swallows, needing the fortification.

“Well, he’s not going to come here. No one is. So, you know. The green futon over there is mine. I’m going to order pizza though, if anyone else is hungry.”

“I’m confused,” Sarah offered. “Do you even know each other?”

“No,” the assassin said. “He saved my life, and I am impinging on his good nature.”

“Sounds about right,” Cherise said. “Well, the shower schedule’s on the bathroom door, and we will fight you over it.”

The assassin snorted, and then he glanced back at Dick. His voice was surprisingly small when he said, “Does pizza have the flesh of animals?”

“It doesn’t have to,” Dick replied, feeling weirdly endeared to that tone. He was on the verge of doing even stupider shit than inviting a League assassin into his home, and he needed to take a step back, recover some perspective. 

“Please,” the man said, and Dick nodded and went across the room to grab the phone and order their usual order plus a deluxe veggie for the assassin.

***

The phone ringing woke Dick out of a sound sleep, and he rolled over into the solid mass that was the assassin’s torso. A tanned hand snaked out to grab him and then he was flat on his back with the assassin’s arm pressing into his trachea.

The green of his eyes was especially bright, almost sparking with intensity, and then, abruptly, they looked almost blue and the man jerked away from him, rubbing his head.

“It’s… it’s for you,” Sarah called.

Only one person calling made either of the girls hesitate like that, and Dick groaned. He was absolutely not in the mood to deal with Bruce Motherfucking Wayne right then.

Then, he thought about Talia and her kid in the bed with him and he snickered, making Sarah give him a weird look when she handed the receiver over.

“What do you want?” he asked, not bothering with the niceties. Bruce was all about the niceties, but Bruce had _fired_ him when all he’d wanted to do was figure out who he was without all the stuff that had been given to him since he’d been orphaned at eight.

“There’s been some League of Shadows activity recently in both Gotham and Bludhaven,” Bruce said, short and gruff and utterly Batman. After a certain point, Batman was a lot easier to deal with than Bruce Wayne because Batman never tried to force his trust fund down Dick’s throat.

“Oh, and I rated a warning, did I?”

“Robin--”

“Don’t call me that,” Dick said. “ _You_ fired _me_ , remember?”

“Dick,” Bruce replied, sounding put upon. “I’d like you to come back to the Manor. The League of Shadows knows my identity--”

“And whose fault is that?” Dick asked, feeling particularly malicious. Some hurts couldn’t be fixed, and Bruce would never figure that out.

“Which means they can certainly determine yours. I am not trying to _make_ you come back, but I would like to assure your safety…”

Dick turned around, wrapping the cord around his fingers and leaning back against the wall, watching as the assassin made his way over to the bathroom and consulted the schedule on the door, and then the clock in the kitchen, before carefully opening the door.

“And only _my_ safety,” he mused.

Bruce was silent for long moments. “Whatever is bothering you this time, surely seeing one another in person would be a better way to, to deal with this.”

“Tell Alfie I love him too.”

“ _Dick_ ,” Bruce said.

“Your problem, Bruce,” he said, “is that you have no idea why I’m mad at you.”

“We can speak about this when you come home. I’m sure someone can cover your shifts at… your place of employment. We can discuss the situation with Nightwing and with the-- with your team…”

“No,” Dick said. “No, that’s not it. I can take care of myself. Goodbye, Bruce,” he said, pressing the switch on the phone cradle to allay the urge to slam the receiver down.

“I’m just glad he didn’t do that thing with our rent again,” Sarah said. “I thought I was going to have to provide you an alibi against a murder one charge last time.”

Dick rubbed his face, and then he turned to the coffee maker and poured himself a mug, wondering how the assassin took his coffee.

Probably black, like his proverbial soul, he thought sourly, and he glared at the mug like that would put him into a better mood.

“What are you going to do the day he magically discovers the reason you won’t have anything to do with him.”

“Scream really loudly for Superman and hope he swoops in to save me from my own poor choices.”

She snorted, and then she pulled out another mug and poured a third cup of coffee for the assassin. “So, what’s hottie’s name?”

“Not a clue,” Dick said.

She shook her head. “You know, most people _sleep_ with their one night stands.”

Dick laughed and shook his head ruefully. “Do you know if I did laundry this week? I should get him something a little less obtrusive to wear.”

“I dunno, I kind of like the whole ‘Sultan’s Sordid Affair’ thing he has going on,” she said, cocking her head. “Do you think he’d be upset if I took a peek?”

“No free shows in this apartment, remember?” he said, and she laughed again.

“You’re good for another few days before you’re utterly screwed on laundry,” she said. “You promised you’d come with me to the laundromat on Tuesday, remember? That creepy white dude always tries to steal my delicates.”

Dick grimaced comically at her, and then went over to the curtained old bookcase he kept his clothes in and grabbed some loose sweats and a faded superman t-shirt to sneak into the bathroom for the assassin.

He really needed to figure out the guy’s name.

When the assassin finally emerged, Dick had found a newscast on tv about a person of interest in a recent crime spree who bore striking similarity to the man Dick had brought home the night before.

“Did you really kill fifteen people last night?” Dick asked, not looking up, when he heard the bathroom door open.

“Last night?” the assassin asked. “No, I don’t think I killed anyone.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“What about ever,” Sarah asked. “You were really specific about the timeframe there, and if you’re crashing with us--”

“I don’t know that number,” the assassin said. “It has proved a sticking point between myself and my father, so if you’d like me to leave--”

Dick snorted coffee and spilled his mug everywhere trying to control his reaction.

“ _Father_?!” he demanded, turning to stare at the other man. He looked ridiculously innocuous in the too-small borrowed clothing, the S shield stretched across his muscular torso, and the assassin looked taken aback.

“Yes. I told you Talia was my mother, and--”

“And Talia is kind of a total femme fatale. I’m not going to make any assumptions about who she was banging twenty years ago.”

“Eleven,” the assassin corrected.

Dick blinked. “Yeah, there’s no way you’re only ten, sorry.”

The assassin laughed at that, outright, head tipping back with what appeared to be genuine mirth. “Father said something similar. And then he said exactly that, and then he told me to get out.”

“Yeah, he does that,” Dick said.

Sarah piped up, “I have two questions: do you have a name? And how _are_ you ten?”

“Mother used technology to increase my physical maturity at a rapid rate,” the assassin said, examining his hands. “And my name is Damian, if you will.”

“Huh,” she said. “No wonder the news thinks you killed 15 people, if your name is _Damian_.”

Damian shrugged, and then he glanced at Dick, running his gaze over him assessingly. “You’ll want to shower, too. And then you will accompany me to Gotham.”

“Oh for--” Dick said, but Damian grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him toward the bathroom. Problem was, he _was_ covered in coffee, so he _did_ need a shower.

He’d let Damian know that he was crossing the river into Gotham approximately a week after hell froze over _after_ he was clean and had dry clothes.

***

If Damian were to be honest with himself, he would say he didn’t truly _mind_ that Dick, who must be his father’s ward Richard Grayson, once Robin, now… missing from the reports his mother had complied on his father every month, had made him come to this club instead of allowing them to travel back to his father’s manor

He both enjoyed the idea of Dick as Richard Grayson and did not; Grayson was inevitably someone he should compare himself too, because he was the impetus for Damian’s creation, but Dick seemed…

Well. Dick was the sort of person who would share everything he had based on… on…

And there Damian faltered, because he had no idea what had made Dick choose to help him.

And he likely wouldn’t. 

Dick hadn’t allowed Damian to take him across the river into Gotham, had said instead that he was going to be late for his ‘shift’ if they went, and he’d purchased more food for Damian and then taken him back to the club and introduced him to a bulky man named Wallace who had given him an unimpressed once-over and then shrugged.

“Great! Thanks, Wallace. I promise, he can handle any trouble that gets thrown at him.”

Wallace had shaken his head and then shooed Dick back into the corridor that held the dingy room Damian had picked to hide in.

“So,” Wallace said, glaring indiscriminately around the room.

The patrons seemed to be exclusively unsavory men of ill-health and poor hygiene. The servers seemed to be pretty young people wearing very little but their smiles.

It was exactly as it had been the night before.

“How do you know Dick?”

Damian glanced at Wallace, deciding that he would have to come up with a satisfactory explanation or else he would be facing physical retaliation.

“He offered me shelter,” Damian decided on, after too many moments of fraught silence. Everything else was just speculation, after all, and how did one explain the rest of it anyway? Even Damian didn’t quite have it all straight in his head.

Wallace shook his head again. “Kid’s too damned nice for his own good. Anyone else would have taken one look at you and run in the other damned direction.”

Damian considered that, then nodded slowly. “I have been raised from the time I could walk unaided in the ways of my grandfather’s people,” he said.

Wallace sighed. “Kid, I’m not about to kick you out, not until you cause trouble. You don’t have to tell me anything that you wouldn’t tell any other stranger.”

Damian nodded again. “I wouldn’t harm him,” he said finally. “He is…”

He didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

“He’s a good one,” Wallace said, in tones of agreement. “Don’t normally make ‘em good like that in this part of the country.”

“Nor where I am from,” Damian said, thinking of the League, of friends who would as soon hunt him on his grandfather’s whim.

The main stage periodically was occupied with a variety of people, all of them young and flexible and very, very naked by the end of their songs, when they would provocatively bend to collect the scattered bills that had been tossed to the stage.

Gradually, the darkened club filled with people, with Wallace periodically circling through them, and occasionally sending Damian over to a clump of people who had converged on one of the dancers or waitstaff, which usually broke up before he even got over to them.

Once, the dancer had been Cherise and she took a second to squeeze Damian’s wrist before flitting away to entertain other people.

By the time Dick took the main stage, the room was almost completely full of milling people, the combined stink of sweat and cigarettes and alcohol making Damian have to fight to keep his expression blank.

The dancers had _not_ been educational. Damian had been required to learn human anatomy from a young age, so he could best disable or kill any opponent, and while he could understand and respect the sexual appeal of such entertainment, he had long since learned to control his hormonal reactions.

His mother was his role model in all ways except one, and in that regard he had been tutored by Ra’s al Ghul himself.

But when Dick took the stage, wearing decidedly more than he had been at their first meeting, but gleaming with some sort of oil and sparkling motes that littered his skin and drew the eye to the planes of his muscles, his throat went dry.

Wallace elbowed him. “Don’t. That’s not for the likes of us,” he said, and he sounded almost sorry to say it.

Damian scoffed, and he carefully tugged the ridiculous t-shirt he’d borrowed down over his abdomen, focusing on getting the hem to cover his skin entirely.

When he looked up, it was worse because Dick had turned upside down on the spinning pole and his slow gyration made the fact that he was as carefully fit as any member of the League distressingly obvious.

Idly, the thought came to him that strong as he was, Dick was still smaller than Damian, and how warm he’d felt, how comfortable, until that phone ringing had accidentally sent him on the defensive.

Wallace pressed a glass into Damian’s hand and he glanced down before taking it. He wasn’t sure, because of the poor lighting, but he thought the liquid within might have been amber. He knocked it back and felt it burn all the way down, grimacing and appreciating the gesture.

Dick slid all the way down the pole and executed a perfect backbend, laughing when some patron, greatly daring, reached over his body to slip some bills into the tie that held his last remaining garment in place.

A man, broad shouldered and sucking on a cigar stood up abruptly, making his way toward the corridor that would lead to the dressing room, and Damian held up a hand to stop Wallace.

He recognized the man in profile, and Wallace was certainly not equipped to handle him.

Damian was no longer sure _he_ was equipped to handle him, but at least he knew what he was getting into.

The corridor was better lit than the main floor of the club, and Damian cleared his throat.

The man turned, and Damian raised an eyebrow at the costume.

“Matches Malone, I presume?” he said dryly.

‘Matches’ raised an eyebrow in turn and then frowned, glaring. “Is there anything your mother _hasn’t_ told you.” It wasn’t a question so much as a condemnation, and Damian scoffed.

“She hadn’t told me that you were intolerably stubborn and unwilling to render aid where aid was needed,” Damian said.

“I told you, the Pit doesn’t _work_ like that. I’ve studied--”

“As long as my grandfather has studied it? If he says one thing and _you_ say another, I am inclined to believe him.”

His father opened his mouth to protest and Damian advanced on him, crowding him up against the door to the dressing room. “Grandfather is too powerful to bother lying to someone like me. It hurts him not at all to tell the truth, and so I believe him. But you, you wear more masks than any man alive should be able to, and mother says even she does not know your true face. If grandfather says he will take my body for his vessel, and you tell me it is impossible, I will believe _him_.”

Someone gasped behind them, and Damian whirled, only to see Dick, clutching at the ‘torn’ costume from the performance earlier, and a handful of crumpled, moist bills. He looked completely bare, like that, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been even when he’d stripped completely naked the night before to misdirect Damian’s pursuers.

“Ra’s wants to posses Damian and you were just going to _let_ him?” Dick demanded. “What the hell, Bruce. I mean, _I_ knew you only cared about your own idea of who you are, but this is-- this is _insane_.”

“This man is a member of the League of Shadows,” Father said quellingly, holding a hand out as if to reach for Dick who definitely was Richard Grayson, Batman’s ward and chosen Heir.

Once, Damian had consoled himself with daydreams of killing him and taking his place at his father’s side.

Now--

“You should go, Grayson,” Damian said, unable to keep a snarl from twisting his tone. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Like hell,” Grayson replied, pushing past them both to pass through the dressing room door. He opened up his locker and quickly switched his garment for more useful underclothes, and then put on sweatpants and a sweatshirt before turning back to them.

Belatedly, Damian realized that Father had turned away from Grayson and that perhaps it would have been polite for him to do so as well, except.

“Oh for-- it’s not like it’s anything you haven’t seen before, is it, _partner_?” Grayson said, irritated.

“I know that you wished to be a police officer,” Father said. “But you have to understand why it couldn’t be allowed, Dick. Please, come home with me until this mess with the League of Shadows has been worked out.”

“And just let Ra’s take Damian’s body out for a spin? Huh-uh. No way, José,” Grayson said. “I can’t believe you! A kid shows up, _my age_ , asking for help, and you just throw him to the wolves? You’ve _changed_ , Bruce. You’ve changed, and I don’t like who you’ve changed into, and I’m not going to stand by and let you try to wrap _me_ in cotton wool while throwing your biological kid out in the cold.”

Damian opened his mouth, but Grayson turned his glare on him and jabbed an angry finger into his chest. “Shut up,” he said. “This is between Batman and Robin.”

Damian felt something clench in his chest like a fire-hot band around his heart, but he nodded, meekly acquiescing in a way he had been trained never to do.

“You told me once that you helped me because when you saw me crying for my parents, a part of you saw yourself at that age. Well, I’ll tell you something: I look at Damian, and all I can see is you. _He_ needs my help, my protection, especially since you won’t offer it.

“Your problem, Bruce, is that you can’t accept Nightwing. You can’t accept Richard Grayson, police academy cadet. You can’t see me as a grown up-- all you can see is an eight-year-old boy who needed your help. And now you’ve got a kid who’s ten, even if he doesn’t look it, who needs your help against some of your oldest enemies, and you can only see an adult, a killer.”

“Dick, I didn’t know you felt that way,” Father said, sounding broken.

“I know. And it was easier that way.”

The door that led back out into the club flew open, and Damian whirled, seeing the White Ghost and wanting to flee.

“Robin, _go_ ,” Father snapped.

“Like _hell_ ,” Grayson said. Then he did something Damian, and from the look on his father’s face, Bruce would never have expected in an eternity of living. “SUPERMAN I NEED YOU!” he shouted, as loud as he could.

It wasn’t long before a blue and red blur appeared, resolving briefly into _the actual Superman_ , before the White Ghost and the bevy of Damian’s former cohort were slumped unconscious on the floor.

“Huh,” Grayson said. “Thanks, Supes.”

“No problem, kiddo,” _the actual Superman_ said. “Nice shirt.”

Damian felt his cheeks heat and he tugged at the hem again, but it remained too short and too tight and too obvious.

“Matches,” _the actual Superman_ said, “why are you fighting assassins in a strip club? I’m pretty sure Dick’s a little young for this sort of thing, still.”

“Damian and I were just leaving,” Grayson said. “He’s joining the Titans, by the way, so I’ll need to get him his security credentials.”

“Sure,” _the actual Superman_ said easily. “Just let me or... “ he glanced at Father, then turned back to Grayson, his expression softer suddenly. “Just let me know and I’ll get everything set up.”

“Yeah. We’re leaving now. Bye!” Grayson said, grabbing Damian’s wrist and dragging him out through the club, picking his way gingerly over the various toppled League assassins.

It occurred to Damian to protest-- he no longer required the scant security Robin could provide, and certainly Grayson didn’t need Damian complicating things with Father for him. If there was one thing he’d learned from his mother’s interactions with his grandfather, it was when to make a quiet escape before the emotional fallout could encompass him.

Grandfather always got violent when Talia was disobeying him, in fact.

“Wallace!” Grayson said, stopping abruptly in front of the large man. “Damian’s walking me home. Anyone else want off early?”

“No one else pulls your stage tips, Dick,” Wallace said placidly. “You know that.”

“Great. Oh, and if you hear of anyone who has a bed they’re looking to unload, give me a call. Damian’s a little big for the futon, you know?”

Wallace gave Damian a meaningful look and Damian shrugged, helpless to twist out of the grip on his wrist even though he’d certainly been trained to escape many worse restraints.

Wallace glanced at Grayson, then back at Damian, and then he grinned a little.

“Have fun, you two,” he said, and then he winked.

“With what?” Damian demanded, and Grayson laughed, dragging him out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the illustration by Pentapoda [here.](https://pentapoda.tumblr.com/post/162794811133/for-dickdamiweek-day-one-assassindamian-no)


End file.
